


His Rocks

by orphan_account



Category: Muse (Band)
Genre: Bad Ending, Childhood, Children, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 09:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13051335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He loves the river, and the rocks, and the sticks, the constanttap, tap, tapof his white birch stick.





	His Rocks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wolstenhvlme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolstenhvlme/gifts).



> Inspired by Alice Walker's "The Flowers."

Countless hours were spent by Matthew skipping along the rocks that bordered his river. They were harsh grey things to anyone else, full of jagged edges and dried-up worms. But they were where he felt truly at home. Every time he’d head to his river, eyes squinting at the golden radiance of the sun, a new wave of excitement would wash over him. 

He carried a short birch stick in his tiny hand. A hardly-discernable rhythm made itself apparent with each echoing tap of the wood on his rocks. It flowed through each inch of his body as he hopped along the bank. His rhythm, his rocks, the ever-apparent swishing of his river next to him, it all accumulated to the typical glee that filled the eight-year-old boy.

Taking a short glance at the steadily rising sun, Matthew headed west. He chased after his shadow. He flung bits of dirt with his stick into his river. He cherished every moment of the bright morning as he followed the current farther and farther away from his home. 

_Don’t go too far,_ his mother had told him, and the words echoed in his head the closer his shadow crept to his form. His rocks became increasingly unfamiliar, less his and more the river’s. The trees to his left seemed closer than they had been—were they following him? 

All those thoughts flew from his head when he saw a tiny blue patch peeking up from underneath a stone. Previously relaxed motions became urgent as he scampered over. Closer inspection deemed that it was a Wham bar—a _real_ Wham bar! His mother never let him have any, and many a day he’d bartered a bit from a friend just for a taste. The wrapping looked intact, albeit a bit dirty, and some portions even shone in the growing summer sun.

The white birch stick was tucked under his arm as he fiddled with the cheap plastic wrapping. The first bits of tongue-tingling fizziness to grace his mouth had him giggling in ecstasy—a _real_ Wham bar!

If anything, the second bite was better than the first, and the third better the second, and so on, until the entire bar sat in his belly. After a quick lick of his fingers, he crumpled the sticky plastic in his fist and shoved it into his pocket. He’d have to remember to throw it away before his mother saw.

For now, though, he continued his journey down his river, with a full tummy and light heart. The woods no longer crept in on him, the harsh forms of the rocks became softer in his eyes. His rhythm returned with every step along the stony bank.

It was then, crushed wrapper in his pocket, tapping stick in hand, feet bounding over rocks, that he stepped into both the groove of two rocks and the eye of a man.

His foot became lodged in two larger stones, and no amount of wriggling seemed to be able to set it free. A tiny grunt of frustration escaped his tiny lips as he shook his tiny foot in a desperate attempt to get out. Nothing happened. He hit the rocks with his stick. Nothing happened, except for bits of white bark chipping off and shooting in all directions.

He noticed, then, the eyes that had been watching him struggle. They were faint grey orbs that shone in a shadow, the rest of their owner’s body obscured by a tree. Those eyes—they pulled a string in Matthew’s body, one that caused a shiver to fly through him. They were so _wide,_ and were gazing at him with such an intensity that made it seem they were watching him for hours.

Were they?

The rest of the head revealed itself from the forest. It was a man’s—a gaunt, ratty face with a nose that was too big and eyebrows that were too small. Mousy blond bangs framed the top of the man’s face. What chilled Matthew, though, was the massive naked grin that decorated the lower half of that head. Pink lips stretched open to reveal too-straight, too-white teeth, all bared for the shivering and stuck brunet to see.

In a sudden rush of movement, the man scampered over to Matthew, kneeling down to look at him from his eye-level. The grin never left his face, which cocked slightly to the side. From the close proximity, Matthew could smell each of the man’s breaths, sharp and raw wheezes of stale coffee.

“Hello, little boy,” the man said, his voice raspy. Matthew shied away, unable to do much else in his current state. He didn’t want to say hello to the man.

One of the blond’s thick hands reached into a pocket, and pulled out a brand new Wham bar. It sparkled in the midday sun, perfectly clean, unlike the one Matthew ate. “Did you like my treat?” the blond asked. “I’m sure you did, Matthew. Did you like it?”

Matthew was frozen with a mixture of horror and curiosity. Would the man give him another Wham bar? Was it really his lucky day? But why on Earth was he smiling like that?

The man’s smile seemed to stretch wider. “Come on, little boy,” muttered the stranger, dropping the Wham bar to press both palms to Matthew’s ribs, right under his armpits. In a fluid motion, he yanked Matthew from the rocks and put him over his shoulder. “Come on, Matthew,” he continued, picking the candy up from the ground and shoving it in the back pocket of Matthew’s now-dirt-ridden jeans. “Come on.”

The birch stick fell into the river, Matthew’s river, and was washed downstream.

**Author's Note:**

> There he goes....


End file.
